


landslide

by autumnwaltz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, R Plus L Equals J, jon has an ice dragon and rescues sansa from kl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27973693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnwaltz/pseuds/autumnwaltz
Summary: She’s heard rumors of dragons waking out of stone in the east. What she didn't expect is for an actual, grown, ice dragon interrupting her wedding to the imp — astride by a poorly dressed stranger resembling her father, demanding her release.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 160





	landslide

The sept is filled with the lords and ladies in King’s Landing, each in their finest garbs, dressed for a show. Many look at her with unabashed pity and amusement. Sansa Stark of Winterfell, her father’s head cut off in public, executed like some common thief, her brother hosting a rebellion in the Trident, her younger sister missing. She wishes they have never come down south in the first place. She wishes she never got fooled by the endless fairytales they have fed her, of gallant princes and beautiful, kind queens, and happy endings — she has learned the hardest way that they were all lies, all lies, fairytales don’t exist, gallant princes are hideous monsters on the inside, and every person in this godforsaken capital has a hidden agenda of their own — even her friend Margaery, who has been nothing but terribly kind and lovely towards her. Sansa knew that Margaery and her grandmother, Lady Olenna conspired to get Sansa to marry the Willas solely because of her hold to the North. It didn’t matter to her, though. She was so excited to see Highgarden… so _happy_ that she might finally have the chance to escape King’s Landing. 

Those dreams were immediately crushed when she was told that she’s going to marry Tyrion Lannister instead. She should have expected it. They would _never_ let her go. Her only hope is that Robb would defeat every Lannister army and finally reach King’s Landing, but hope is a dangerous thing, and she is not that naive girl who was so ecstatic with the prospect of being engaged to the crown prince, not anymore. 

Her wedding day is nothing like she ever imagined. Joffrey meets her by the gate and tells her he would be the one to give her away, as her father isn’t here. _Because you killed him,_ she wants to say. But instead, she entwines her arm against his, her skin crawling at the contact, and mutters, _thank you, your grace._

She walks up the aisle, each of her steps heavy against the marble stone, and tries to keep her face completely blank. Her gown is beautiful. The Lannisters did not spare any expense. It is heavy and sewn by the best seamstresses, gleaming with gold. She has cried earlier in the privacy of her chambers and let her handmaiden Shae apply a white powdery substance that covered the red surrounding her eyes. She will not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry — not now, not ever again. 

She is Sansa Stark, the daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, the blood of Winterfell, and recently, a Princess of the North. She tells herself she doesn’t care what these people think of her. 

But in a few minutes, they will take away her name, too. Just as they had taken every single thing that has mattered to her. She swallows, keeps her head up and her back straight, moving as graceful as she could. Everyone looks at her with scrutiny, and at the corner of her eyes, she could see Queen Cersei with the edge of her lips tugged upwards in a pleased smirk. 

The Septon instructs them to recite the vows, and she does, her voice robotic and lifeless that it barely sounds like her. She hears the crowd muffle their snickers when it is finally time for Tyrion to wrap her with the Lannister cloak, who is helpless against her tall stature. Joffrey’s laughter is the loudest until his grandfather shoots him a look, and he idly quiets down. Sansa breathes in deep and bends her knees to accommodate her soon to be official husband. She doesn’t believe that the old gods hear her prayers anymore, not after everything, but still she closes her eyes and prays and prays and _prays._

First, she hears a resounding roar. The flapping of heavy wings. A loud _thud_. 

And then _chaos_. 

A few women faint in distress, and Joffrey screams in his usual tantrum, demanding his mother to tell him what is happening. Cersei’s face remains impassive, save for the furrow in her brow. The lords and ladies are murmuring among themselves in anxiety, and Tywin Lannister, the hand of the king, dispatches the guards to gather forces, his face white. The heavy doors of the sept open, banging against the walls with an ominous thump, and cold, _freezing_ air sweeps through the whole sept. Sansa, even dressed in her thick gown, fights a shiver down her spine. 

Joffrey being the idiot that he is, rushes outside demanding who dares attack his kingdom, his face red. Cersei yells his name and immediately turns her feet to follow him, all decorum be damned. The rest comes after them, not wanting to be behind the drama. Sansa exhales and walks towards the commotion. She hears gasps of shock all around her, and her eyes widen on its own accord. 

Maester Luwin taught her that fully grown dragons are larger than the average buildings, with an even sizable wingspan, covered in scales. _Fire made flesh_ , he said in one of their lectures. _But this isn’t fire…_ she says to herself. This is _ice_. Its eyes are pale blue crystal, and its vast translucent wings folded as it settles on the ground outside of Sept of Baelor. The air is cold, as cold as the harshest winter. Its rider wears strange-looking furs, looking down inquisitively as if searching for someone in particular. Sansa holds her breath.

“Who are you! I demand you to speak at once!” Joffrey roars. Cersei stays silent, staring at the dragon in shock. Just as everyone else.

“Be quiet,” the man snaps. “Or I will freeze you to death.”

Sansa sees Cersei grip Joffrey’s arm tightly and he shuts up.

“Which of you goes by the name Sansa Stark?” he calls out loudly. His accent is rough, _northern_. 

She’s heard rumors of dragons waking out of stone in the east. What she didn't expect is for an actual, grown _, ice dragon_ interrupting her wedding to the imp — astride by a poorly dressed stranger resembling her father, demanding her release. 

He frowns and then decides to scale his dragon's icy spines, jumping off with lethal grace. 

“This cannot be possible! The last dragons died centuries ago!” Joffrey shrieks.

“Well, clearly not,” the man says as he swaggers into the center of the crowd. “And do not even try to put an arrow into me if you don’t want my _friend_ to finish all of you,” he threatens. 

Joffrey keeps shouting, telling the guards to bring him the trespasser’s head, but they were locked on their feet, looking at the dragon in fear.

It happens fast. The man says a foreign word, and the dragon roars, its head descending towards Joffrey. It clicks its jaws, and ice comes out, freezing the boy king all at once—the crowd gasps.

“Well, I did tell him to shut up,” the man shrugs, unapologetic. “I will once again ask, where is Sansa Stark?”

Silence.

Sansa takes a deep breath, “What do you want to do with me?” 

He shifts his attention to her, raising his eyebrows. He studies her up and down, “Red hair… blue eyes. You’re prettier than I expected, my lady.” 

She blushes against her will. “Who are you?” 

“Jon Snow, at your service,” he bows exaggeratedly. “Lyanna’s son. That makes us cousins, I suppose,” he trails off. 

Murmurs usher through the crowd. Cersei hisses _Rhaegar_ under her breath, her face as white as a ghost. 

It doesn’t even occur to her that he could be lying. He looks like her father, only younger, but his face structure way more elegant. Maybe the gods have really answered her prayers… 

Sansa takes a step. “Did you kill Joffrey?” 

“I haven’t really tried freezing people before,” he says. “Who knows, maybe he’ll thaw and continue his unbearable shrieking.”

Sansa glances at Joffrey, whose frozen face is stuck mid-expression. She doubts that.

She steps in closer, tentatively. “What are you — what do you want to do with me?” she repeats. 

“I’ve come to take you away from here,” he replies. “That gown would be a pain to wear mid-air.” 

“I- what?”

“Mid-air, of course. Unless you want to change clothes?” he answers. 

She stares at him in confusion, and it dawns on her. He wants her to _ride_ the dragon with him. The thought gives her a thrill of excitement. He has come to _save_ her. 

“No,” she smooths her hands down her gown. “I don’t want to change clothes.”

“Good,” he says. He gently pats the enormous dragon as if it’s just a domestic dog. It lowers its head, and Jon climbs up, perching on a saddle. “We would have to share one seat, I’m afraid,” he says. He reaches out a hand, and she instantly takes it, struggling to climb its spines. When she’s finally near enough, he lifts her and places her on his lap.

“There,” he mutters in her ear. His breath is hot in comparison to the cold air. He removes his cloak and settles it across her shoulders. 

She surveys the crowd below — who stood unmoving, gaping at them both. She lets a small smile escape her face. 

“Hold on tight,” he says, guiding her hands to the reins. His hands are rough and calloused. 

Jon wraps an arm around her waist. “Where will we go?” she asks, her voice soft. 

He grins at her, and his eyes glint against the sun, appearing violet for a moment.

She screams as they take off into the sky. 

**Author's Note:**

> just something that popped into my head while in the shower... i knew it would bug me the whole day if i didn't write it. one shot for now


End file.
